


Bedsick

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (kinda), Complicated Relationships, Experimental Style, Love/Hate, M/M, Multi, POV Second Person, Psychic Abilities, Universe switching, mentions of genderbend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 23:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17928260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: You make your bed, but you cannot sleep in it.Bran and Theon, and all the things that could have been.





	Bedsick

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 3 of asoiaf rarepair week, the prompt: Summer/Winter. ~~I acknowledge I am the only person who ships this, but whatever, it's rarepair week, I do what I want.~~

You make your bed, and you hear a bitter laugh from behind, the careless, callous sound of a man who has never thought about cleaning up after himself, ever. Don't you know they have maids for that? he laughs, and you scowl, just a boy but already disliking him, everything he stands for, wishing something would just yank you away from him - but you never knew what could do that, and if you did you would wish differently, but it is too late at this very moment.

You make your bed, but if course you cannot, you cannot move like you need to and so you sit there throughout the day, waiting for him to come in, so close, he was always so close and though you fled across the wall to try and get away from him, it's never worked. Whenever you close your eyes there he is, with that bitter laugh and smirk, reminding you that no matter what the gods themselves turn you into, you always will have been that weeping child, shocked that someone you - maybe didn't like, but trusted - could do this to you.

You make your bed, morning after morning, because that is what a good boy does no mater how wealthy, for you are your mother's son and she impressed upon you the importance of duty. You are the Lord of Winterfell, for a week or two, and you are but a young boy but still you do your duty, until he comes in and you have to give the castle over. That too is your duty, isn't it? After all, he would never hurt you, would he?

You make your bed but it isn't real, it's all a fantasy, an illusion. He comes in to laugh at your being well-behaved, but he likes you, the sweet, naive kid you are, more than he likes most people here. You didn't like him - or at least, you think you didn't. Perhaps you did, in an innocent, boyish way that nonetheless must be kept a secret to the grave, were you anyone else. He comes in to watch you, day after day, as you grow up and he grows old, until one day the poison still seeps through him - but there is no blood, no tears this time, only you and him taking something he can get nowhere else. You are old enough, ten added to seven or so, to let yourself in, to let that curiosity that's always been the death of you win. It should not happen, clearly not, he wouldn't do it otherwise, but still he's kind to you - because he likes you, and you've always told yourself you don't like him, but you're grateful.

You make your bed, the sheets wet and dirty, and remind yourself that never happened; it's all a dream, when you never even had the chance to have such dreams. It is foolish and petty to think if such things when your body has been chosen for a much greater purpose, but him, no matter how high you ascend, he never goes away.

You make your bed, because it's a ritual, the same moves every night, to make you self over again. Because there is a version of you that matters, and the dear sweet little boy who got pushed out a window and had his heart broken isn't it. But that boy is always lurking there, ever more when he gazes into view. The higher you climb the lower he descends, and as he sinks down he drags you down with him. You hate it, you hate remembering what you were when he turned on you, but you are shackled to him, you always have been.

You make your bed, but it isn't yours yet, it can't be. He is but a boy, no older than you were, when they push him upon the block and tell him to pray to his Drowned God. It isn't fair, why should you have to pay for something that didn't happen forever ago? You weren't even born, but you were  born into it - you always thought he must care for you all, because who couldn't, but looking over the breadth of things, why should he?

You make your bed, and in another world he makes a very different bed himself. He grows up round and wet, a princess, curved into everything a budding knight dreams of and you all but worship her. You do not need to hide your admiration. She laughs at your innocence but you grow brave and strong, while she grows old and older as your father's hostage. He lets you bind her to yourself, the princess you've always dreamt of, and it feels like it always should have been - the two of you melted together in the summer sun. But of course, what should be is never what is.

You make your bed, and so does he. He suffers for his sins more than any man you've ever seen, but still it is not enough. They want him dead, his head upon a plate, although that may be kind. You should too, you should hate, you should want him destroyed - you should want him gone. But you cry and scream and beg for him, because you love him. He has always craved for someone to love him, and it is much too late for him to know, but whatever you are, you still do.

He is frozen in your heart, and through the ice and weirwood leaves that are the only things to ever pierce you, he always pushes out.

You make you bed, but without him, you know you cannot sleep in it. And so you wake up alone.


End file.
